Family Jewels
by AliceUnderSkies13
Summary: A "bad" girl meets a "bad" boy...After getting involved with the wrong guy, Alice somehow escapes and ends up living with her aunt's family in America. Her aunt's new stepson is strange, stained, "bad" just like her. But everything is not as it seems...HumanAU. Fem!EnglandxAmerica.
1. Prologue: Red Rings

**A/N: So I've wanted to write a Fem!EnglandxAmerica fic for a while, so I figured why not? This is just a prologue, every chapter after this will have Fem!EnglandxAmerica. I just sat down at the computer and allowed the words to flow, so I hope you like it. Please review, let me know if I should continue. **

* * *

Moonbeams through a keyhole.

Clear and quiet, they alight on her skin. Dancing across the cold sheets. Finding the beads of sweat on her forehead, in the creases of her elbow.

Sweat because the fire is roaring. Baked brick glows red in the darkness. Flames, orange, yellow and blue, stretch out across the wooden floor. She feels the burning fingertip like the butt of a cigarette against her bare shoulder blades.

But it isn't a flame, it's a real cigarette.

Small and white, like the snowflakes that drift by the open window. She watches the snow silently fall, ignoring the circle of heat on her skin.

Burn, burn, burn bright.

It's kissing her arm with its hot, red mouth.

Residual ash, the smell of smoke. Sharp, bitter, just like him.

He lies behind her, body beneath the cold sheets, the cigarette dangling from his lips. He speaks and the small white thing, so unlike a snowflake, moves up and down.

"Alice."

A glowing ring appears on her shoulder.

"Alice."

It fades, just like the pain. But she doesn't want it to fade. She needs something to keep her awake.

"Alice, are you listening to me?"

"No, I'm not." Green eyes are vacant in the darkness. She looks at him, blank and empty. Her face is a snow bank, pillows of freshly fallen snow unsoiled beneath a concrete sky.

Unsoiled, that's a good joke. She is anything but unsoiled.

Mind is a snow bank. He is the pair of fingers tracing pictures in the frost.

Body is a snow bank. He is the kid making angels in the middle of it all, ignoring his friends as they chastise him for ruining a perfectly good patch of snow.

Hair is a snow bank. He is the icicle that clings to every strand, makes water drip into her eyes.

Eyes are a snow bank. He is the snowstorm obscuring her vision.

Her mind, body, hair, and eyes, it is all soiled by him.

"Alice, listen to me."

"No. Can't you just leave me alone? I'm not in the mood, Arthur."

A glowing ring appears on her shoulder.

"Not in the mood? Oh, well I'm sorry, darling. I'm sorry you'd rather be somewhere else right now. I'm sorry you're 'not in the mood'."

"You don't have to get excited, just calm down. It's nothing personal. I just don't feel like it right now."

The ring glows brighter. She winces.

"How is that nothing personal? What is it? What do you want, Alice?"

"Nothing."

The small, white cigarette bores deeper into her skin. She blinks back tears.

"No, you want something. What is it?"

The glowing red becomes a burn, raw and red.

"I told you, I want nothing."

"Liar."

It burns. She swallows hard.

"I would never lie to you, Arthur."

"You lie every day, you little witch. You lie about not 'being in the mood', you lie about why you're always looking out the window, you lie about not loving those bastards at the office!"

It burns, it burns. It burrows into her shoulder blade and she stifles a yelp, her back arching.

"Arthur, I-I swear, I want nothing. I don't lie to you. I love you, just you, ok?"

"You're still lying, darling." He rests his head against her back, fingers walking up her protruding spine. Counting the vertebrae, one, two, three, four. "Why do you like hurting me, Alice?"

A strangled whisper. "I don't."

His fingers entangle in her hair. "Yes you do, darling."

"N-no." Her bottom lip quivers, but the tears never fall.

She can't cry, because she's been silent all her life_._

"Yes you do."

"No, I promise I don't."

He'll play this game for a while longer. Throwing accusations, waiting for her whimpering voice to reach his ears. He trapped her long ago, and now he plays with her like a child pulling the wings off a caged butterfly.

Moist lips press against her ear. "Yes, you really do like torturing me, Alice."

She feels his nails in her scalp, his fist gathering her hair into a neat little ball. Not again, he can't. She still has a bald patch on the back of her head. Whenever people ask, she says it was the work of a bad hairdresser.

But it doesn't have to be like this. She can stop him. It's lying there, just beneath her pillow. Blank and white like a snow bank. It's beneath the pillow; it could help her, save her. She's been sleeping with it for the past week.

So no, she is not cheating on Arthur. She is not sleeping with a man; she is sleeping with something that can destroy a man. So maybe she is cheating, and that thing beneath her pillow is a testament to her adultery. Beneath her pillow, always within her grasp. Why hasn't she used it yet?

"Alice, you hear me? You love torturing me, that's what I said. Don't you have anything to say in response?"

Her hand reaches towards her pillow. "N-never. That'll never be true."

"It's always true."

Fingers dig deeper into her scalp. Something warm and red flows from the roots of her hair. The glowing ring is now an open sore. He throws his body against her, pressing her against the window.

Face smashed against the window, looking at the stars that burn bright and then fade like empty lighters.

She whimpers, the tears still invisible. Her pillow is too far behind, she can't reach.

Face smashed into the window, looking at the falling snow, watching as the wind tosses the tree branches.

An eagle amidst the leaves, huddled in its nest, trying to keep warm.

Alice against the windowpane, her body pinned by Arthur's superior weight and strength and words and eyes and glare and everything, his superior everything. Because he's better than her, that's how it's always been.

Left cheek flattened like a pancake against the cold glass, she looks down at the floor.

And there it is.

Her friend from beneath her pillow.

It must have fallen when Arthur jumped at her, pushing the pillow away with his knee. He never heard it fall.

If a tree falls in a forest and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?

If a knife falls in a bedroom and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?

It is so close to her now. Her toes attempt to grab the handle as he sinks his nails deeper into her head and burns her again with the cigarette.

More glowing rings appear on her body.

And then her face is being rammed into the glass, but her eyes are on the floor. She hardly notices as the blood flows down her temple.

So close, so close. Her toes wrap around the wooden handle.

She smiles; her face bruised and bloodied, Arthur's shouts unintelligible words in her ears. She hears nothing and sees nothing.

Her mind is a snow bank, pure, clean and unsoiled.

Now something has fallen into her, lying with the folds freshly fallen snow.

She raises it up with her foot, then grabs it with her shaking hand. It's a swift motion, all she does is turn. She turns just enough and it slices him across the stomach.

He stops ramming her face into the window. Blood splatters, he gasps and staggers back, doubled over, hissing in pain.

The cigarette falls to the floor. She steps on it.

"Alice, Alice, what is that? God, Alice, is that a knife? Why do you have a knife? You love me, you never want to hurt me, remember?"

She walks forward. Drops of blood slide down the metal.

"A-alice, t-that isn't a knife, right? It can't be, it was an accident, you would never hurt me, right, Alice. Alice, you love me, you need me."

Her green eyes are vacant in the darkness. She stares him, empty and blank, a snow bank.

"Alice, what is that?!"

Her friend from beneath her pillow, come to rescue her at last.


	2. White Clouds

Sunbeams through a cumulous cloud.

She has to squint her eyes, the light is blinding. High up in the atmosphere, the world is so bright and cold.

Like the sheets, like Arthur's hands, like the snowflakes that used to fall outside her window.

But she is no longer there, hiding under those sheets.

She is in the sky. The plane is long and white, skimming the surface of heaven and cutting through the thick folds of blue with two long, white arms.

Flying is liberating. She feels empty, but in a good way. Puffs of cotton float beneath her as she flies. The sun looks down at a spotless carpet, innocent and stain-free, so unlike her.

It's one big room, blue walls and a white floor that goes on forever.

She's been in a room like this before.

* * *

After her friend saved her, it clattered to the floor, next to Arthur's lifeless body. Wooden planks, covered in red, and tall, black curtains dipped in what looked like ketchup. Red was everywhere. Alice dropped her friend, and it jammed into one of the broken floorboards.

_Call 911, _a voice told her. So that's what she did.

"911, please state your emergency."

"Uh, hi. My boyfriend, he was calling me a liar and putting red rings on my shoulder, and then my friend, he tried to help—"

A calm voice, trained and controlled by years of practice. "Calm down, just relax, ok? Tell me what happened. Is anyone injured?"

"Yes." Red everywhere, on her face and hands, on her feet and tangled in her hair. It dripped down her temple, flowing from a deep wound in the top of her head. "I think, maybe, maybe my boyfriend is dead, he's not moving."

And then the voice became frantic. "I'm sending an ambulance right away, just stay where you are."

So that's what she did.

Three minutes. A white truck appeared outside, alarms sounded and red light bathed the freshly fallen snow. Men came in, a body bag was dragged across the floor, a gurney rolled over the wood, and then she was being led away by strong hands and she blinked and everything was black.

All of the red suddenly turned to black.

When she woke up, she was in a room with blue walls and a white floor. Cold sheets were draped across her body. Cold like Arthur's eyes, like his hands that would grab at her unwilling body and pull her hair.

She started screaming, tearing the sheets off and trying to rip the IV out of her arm. More red, squirting everywhere, her head pounding and lungs shrieking. Women and men dressed in white came to hold her down.

The red turned to black.

* * *

And now she is on a plane.

Her friend is in a plastic bag, stored somewhere in an evidence locker.

Her hair is in a plastic bag, stored somewhere in her suitcase. She had insisted on keeping the pretty, blonde locks, even after the surgeon had shaved her head and tossed them aside.

But now the peach fuzz on her scalp has grown back in. Straw-like strands hang in her eyes, her hair just short enough to make her look like an adolescent boy.

A man sits next to her, headphone buried deep in his ears.

He's watching a movie on the small screen in front of him. A girl with hair like Alice's, except it is black, lies on a bed, on cold, white sheets.

The girl has a dragon tattoo winding around her body. An old, ugly man is coming up behind her.

Alice knows what is about to happen, so she turns her head.

A headache is coming on, she can feel it. Leaning against the window, she stares at the blinding light, not bothering to squint.

Ice cubes roll across her tongue. She holds an empty glass in her hand, droplets of rum clinging to the sides.

Thank God for the open bar.

She's a lightweight, she knows that, but she loves to drink. It relieves her headaches and makes her scar stop itching.

"Can I get you anything?"

One of the flight attendants just walked up. Her hair is red and curled into ringlets. A ridiculously fake smile is glued on her face.

"No, I'm all right. Thanks."

The redhead looks at the man. "And you, sir?"

"Hmm?" He pauses the movie at a rather uncomfortable scene. The black haired girl on the screen is clawing at the sheets, her mouth open as she silently screams. "I'll have a Sprite, thanks."

Alice stares out the window for the rest of the flight. She listens to the man sip his Sprite and looks for shapes in the clouds.

An elephant riding a unicycle.

A sleeping dragon.

An eagle soaring through the sky.

The clouds envelop the plane as it starts to descend.

"Thank you for flying with us, please enjoy your stay in Los Angeles, California."

These words echo in her ears as she walks down the ramp. How can she enjoy her stay? Her cousin, a senior in high school, has nothing in common with her. Her cousin's family is so perfect and stainless.

It's a perfect family dynamic. A beautiful mother with strawberry blonde hair and bright blue eyes, a genius daughter heading to Harvard in the fall, and a wealthy stepfather with a fancy car.

But isn't there a stepson now?

Alice doesn't remember hearing anything about him.

The letter from her aunt had been very vague and phony sounding. She had talked about how happy she was to see Alice again, pretending that her niece had not just been acquitted of murder. She had rambled on and on about how much fun Alice would have in America, and had talked about her "wonderful" daughter and her new husband who was a "sweetheart", so unlike the previous one.

Alice's aunt lives in a large house with a yard that's managed daily by dozens of underpaid migrant workers. The garage holds five cars that are hardly ever driven, and the furniture is so clean and untouched it's like living in a museum.

Alice won't fit in there.

She'll be the weird one, the dirty and stained one.

She's the one that killed Arthur and went to the hospital and had to go to a therapist and had to go on trial and cried on the witness stand and was set free because of the pity of twelve strangers.

They're the perfect ones.

She is nothing.

But if only she knew about the stepson who is currently playing video games in front of the plasma TV.

She doesn't know about him as she sees her aunt waving at her. She follows the smiling woman out of the airport.

Alice doesn't know about Alfred F. Jones as she gets into her aunt's BMW and thinks about how perfect her aunt's family is.

She couldn't be more wrong.


	3. Black BMW's

Artificial light through a pair of glasses.

He sits on the hardwood floor even though there is a couch behind him. But he hates that couch; it's stiff and uncomfortable, like sitting on a bag of rocks.

An assortment of jagged stones, nothing but sharp angles and angry edges all over the place.

And they're all in one of those thick, black garbage bags that are supposed to hold anything and everything.

So he never sits on that couch.

It's too perfect, with its white leather cushions and mahogany legs.

Instead, he sits on the floor every afternoon, the massive television screen in front of him. Pixels of light refract off his glasses as he plays video games.

Today, he's playing Silent Hill: 2. Thumbs poised on the controls, he leads James through the town.

Empty. Not a soul in sight. Nothing but the occasional deformed monster limping across the road.

He holds his breath.

Sweat beads on his forehead.

He sees the fog and the blinking traffic lights and the empty alleyways and the howling windows and then he goes into an abandoned hotel and Pyramid Head shows up and he screams.

He jumps back and hits the perfect couch with his imperfect, messed-up head.

The glasses lie crooked on his face now.

Ribs rattle as his heart races. Seven layers of pale skin are stretched tight over his thin body.

Goosebumps appear on his neck. They always start there.

Then they race down his arms and onto his chest. He feels them on his legs and he shivers.

It's coming on.

All of the signs are there. The sides of his tongue are still sore from last time.

Teeth marks line either side.

But he picks up the controller and keeps playing. Keeps playing the video games that make his head hurt and his palms sweat.

The flashing lights are imprinted in his brain. Each blue eye crawls across his face.

Slower and slower. He follows James through the hotel.

Flashing lights, firing pistons inside his mind.

It says it right there on the box:

_A very small portion of the population have a condition which may cause them to experience epileptic seizures or have momentary loss of consciousness when viewing certain kinds of flashing lights…_

Yes, he knows that. He is a part of that "very small portion of the population". That's why he plays video games.

He wants to experience that feeling.

Getting to the edge of his condition is fun.

Getting to the edge of James' sanity is fun.

And he's almost there. He can feel a seizure coming on.

Of course he knows when one is coming; he's had the condition for most of his life.

_If you or your child experience any of the following symptoms: dizziness, altered vision, eye or muscle twitching, involuntary movements, loss of awareness, disorientation, or convulsions, DISCONTINUE USE IMMEDIATELY and consult your physician…_

Immediately, yeah right.

That's a good joke.

Alfred F. Jones laughs and runs his hand down his face.

White knuckles bury themselves in his blue eyes.

It's time to stop playing.

He throws the controller onto the floor and leans against the front of the perfect couch.

It's a simplistic ritual. Every day, play till five. Wait for that creeping feeling. Throw the controller away as if it were a live grenade. Then rest his imperfect, messed-up head on the perfect, mess-free couch and try to fall asleep.

James is left kneeling in a closet, watching Pyramid Head do unspeakable things to a mannequin made of nothing but legs.

Poor James. He'll never get out of that closet or find his dead wife, and it's all Alfred's fault.

But maybe if Alfred falls asleep now, he won't breathe right and then he'll die, too. Just like James.

He falls asleep after a few minutes. His body is drenched in cold sweat and he has started to experience "eye or muscle twitching".

James is left alone in the empty hotel room.

* * *

Orange light through a windshield.

Black wipers run across the glass every few seconds. It isn't even raining, but Alice's aunt likes to keep them on, just in case a bug dirties her beautiful windshield.

A fly meets its demise.

Alice stares at the black, broken body. The fly is just a smudge now.

She once saw a smudge of ink on a piece of parchment. It fell from her fountain pen as she was filling out her statement for the court.

She likes using fountain pens. They are nostalgic and prideful. Like holding a wise and long-winded poet in your hand.

A pinpoint of orange appears on Alice's bare thigh.

Her train of thought is broken.

Shafts of light are breaking through the twisted legs of the dead fly.

She stares at the beams as they dance on the dashboard.

"Oh no, not another one." Alice's aunt shakes her head and makes the wipers go faster.

The fly is swept away.

Yet another imperfection removed from her aunt's perfect life.

Alice hopes that she won't be swept away.

She goes back to looking at the pirouetting beams of orange light.

Her eyes follow the contours of the glove box, a shiny BMW emblem in the center of it all. The floor of the car is soft and black.

She is careful not to put her shoes on the carpet. The untied combat boots hover over the spotless material.

They touch a brown paper bag. It peeks out from under her seat.

What is it? One of her aunt's dirty little secrets? A bottle of cheap wine, a matching lingerie set?

"What's in the bag?"

Her aunt pretends not to hear and starts pulling at one of her strawberry curls. "Huh?"

"There's a paper bag on the floor. What's in it?"

"Oh, I thought I put that in the back." She giggles and checks her makeup in the rearview mirror. "Oops."

"Well you didn't. Can you tell me what's in it, please?"

The giggling stops. A bony hand grips the steering wheel. Each finger bears a ring, and gold bracelets fall down the skinny wrist. "Sure, Alice. I picked up your medication this morning. The pharmacist was very friendly; you should come with me next time."

"I thought I was finished taking meds…"

"No, Alice, remember what the doctors said? And don't you like your medication? Doesn't it make you feel better?"

"No…not really."

"These new pills will make you feel better." A fake smile is glued on the woman's face. "Don't worry."

"I don't want new pills…" But her aunt isn't listening.

A fingernail, painted blood red, flicks a switch on the side of the steering wheel. The wipers flash across the windshield, squeaking and dragging against the dry glass.

Fly guts are painted on the horizon.

From where Alice sits, she can see every torn antenna and misshapen leg.

She won't fall asleep where she sits.

Even though the dismembered flies tiptoe through her mind, she'll try her best to stay awake and watch the never-ending road.

Sleeping is just a pathetic form of escapism. You close your eyes and wait for darkness to pull you away from reality.

Alice never slept when she was with Arthur. And she never slept in her tiny cell while she waited to be put on trial. She never slept in the mental hospital and she will probably never sleep again.

That's what the medication is for. Sleeping is good, according to the rest of the world.

But she knows the truth. She will continue to fight sleep, because it breeds nothing but weakness.

Weakness is the worst. It makes tea taste awful, a beautiful house of cards come crumbling down, and it ruins the plot of an otherwise decent book. Weakness kills everything.

Her aunt just opened her mouth again.

Oh, how wonderful.

"By the way, we have the best assortment of tea at home, so you should feel right at home. You British certainly love your tea!"

"I'm English…"

The mouth keeps moving. "You know, I've been to Britain a few times. Your uncle and I have gone there for some rather romantic getaways." The strawberry blonde curls bounce as she giggles. "Oh, that's right! You haven't met him yet. He's a wonderful man; you're going to absolutely love him. His name is—"

Alice doesn't really care what his name is. In all honesty, she doesn't care what her aunt's name is either.

In her mind, the woman with the strawberry blonde curls and manufactured smile is simply called "Aunt", and the new husband is "Uncle". Her cousin, well her cousin has a name, it's Emily.

She wonders what the stepson's name is. Apparently, he's from Washington D.C, so he must have a very "American" sounding name.

He must be patriotic, bleeding red, white, and blue, his eyes probably flecked with silver stars.

So maybe it's John, after John Smith and John Adams.

Sam, after Uncle Sam with his white beard and accusing finger.

George, after the father of America.

It could be anything.

Her head suddenly starts to hurt, and her hands start tingling.

She needs a cigarette. Bad.

Eleven hours and twenty-eight minutes of nonstop flying. Her tongue has missed the comfort of the little white thing, so slender and warm in her mouth.

So unlike a snowflake.

Now she cannot go another second without one. The symptoms of withdrawal are truly awful, anxiety, sweating, pounding headaches that make her curl up into a ball and want to die.

No, she will not go through that again.

"Can I smoke?"

Her aunt swallows hard. "I thought they would have beat that nasty habit out of you in the hospital haha…"

Green eyes are vacant, unblinking. "So what's the answer?"

"Oh, well this car is new; he just bought it for me. So…" Those bony hands move around the circumference of the steering wheel, the rings jingling. "Why don't I pull over? You can smoke outside the car, Alice."

"Fine by me."

The BMW stops on the side of the road.

Alice slams the door behind her, cutting off her aunt's final plea of "I really wish you would stop, Alice. It is such a gross ha—"

"It's like she never shuts up." She rolls her eyes and pulls out a cigarette.

It's like greeting old friends. Hello, tobacco, how wonderful you taste. Hello, nicotine, how addictive your powers of seduction are.

Alice lights it with a match. She's old-fashioned like that.

The girl who uses fountain pens, reads Shakespeare plays, and lights her cigs with Diamond Strike Anywhere matches.

It won't take long for her to suck up all the smoke and delicious nicotine, but she'll take her time.

Her aunt can wait until she's a skeleton stuck to the steering wheel for all she cares, all of those gaudy rings jingling on bleached bones.

Who does that woman think she is?

Getting Alice some new medication to make her "feel better", that's a good joke.

Pills turn Alice into a zombie.

Her eyes become looking-glasses, fitting for her name.

Those pills won't help her. They'll only make her more of an empty shell than she already is.

She blows smoke into the air and takes a deep breath.

Cars speed by, the gravel cracks beneath her feet, and waves of heat simmer on the horizon.

Most people would be hot, but she isn't hot.

She feels numb most of the time. Her body is still stuck in wintertime, inside that house with its cold sheets and cold, intrusive hands.

Her fingers are still making castles out of snow.

So she feels cold, standing there on the side of highway, a cigarette glowing between her teeth.

It may seem odd, that she smokes.

Sure, she still remembers the red rings and the white thing that always moved whenever he cursed at her, but she needs it for some reason.

Almost as if Arthur had given this craving to her through all of their forced lovemaking and fighting.

Water passing through a semi-permeable membrane. She was a cell and so was he.

And after that night, when the room had been dripping with Arthur colored paint, the craving had sunk into her blood and bones.

What is the most intimate act that can be done between two human beings?

Sex?

Wrong.

The answer is murder.

That final moment of intimacy had given Alice the craving.

Now she is obsessed with smoking, and in a strange way, Arthur is still there somehow.

With each inhalation and exhalation, he is there, haunting her.

Alice shakes her head. "Idiot, he's dead. You killed him, remember?"

A voice seems to say, "Oh yeah" and then she turns around and looks at the BMW.

Her aunt is still there. The woman checks her makeup in the rearview mirror, running her fingers over her perfect teeth.

There's another reason for Alice to hate her aunt.

The wretched woman wants to get her braces for her "crooked British teeth".

But Alice won't get them. She'll fight the dentist and her aunt if she has to. She's a good fighter, too.

After all, she is a murderer.

Alice takes her time smoking.

The cars continue to fly by and the orange beams begin to disappear below the horizon. A hot wind is blowing. It flows through her hair and across her scarred scalp.

Her hair needs to hurry up and grow already.

It needs to grow like her shadow that stretches towards the road.

She squints her eyes as the beams stretch along the ground and sink into the soil.

The dirt eats the sunbeams up.

Her aunt's voice is carefully controlled, sweet as ethylene glycol. "Alice. Alice, honey. Are you done? We have to go. It'll be dark soon."

Alice says nothing.

She walks back to the car, flicking the cigarette into the dirt. In the passenger's seat, she is silent, trying not to look at her aunt.

This is just how she is. A one track mind like a goldfish, her mind bitter and paranoid.

She won't bend over and curtsy for anyone; she won't talk to anyone, either.

And she just really isn't very likable. And she knows it.

She is utterly unlikable as her aunt drives in the dark and turns the yellow headlights on.

She is still unlikable as the ocean appears on one side, clear and black with a swollen moon rising above it.

Then the massive house appears on the other side.

Alice is still unlikable.

This is a fact.

No one inside this house will like her.

She looks towards the sky as she walks up the long driveway, nothing but a carry-on slung over her shoulder.

A cloud is passing over the moon.

It kind of looks like an eagle poised and ready to fly.

* * *

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed this longer chapter. Please review! :D**


	4. Yellow Roses

Moonlight through blocks of glass.

The silver face is fat and round. A giant lamp floating in the air.

Puddles form all over the white tile.

Puddles full of lunar stuff.

Puddles full of cold water from the showerhead.

Alice can see the moon from where she stands. It hovers just outside the massive window. Why is it so bright? Why is it just sitting there, waiting for her?

She wants to tell it to stop staring, but that would be stupid. It's faceless, eyeless. As featureless as a snow bank.

And there's no one swimming in the ocean tonight. The beach is dark and vacant. But she still feels uncomfortable.

Standing naked in the shower always makes her feel uncomfortable.

Especially right now, since there is a window in the shower and there are no curtains or blinds.

She remembers her aunt's words.

"It's a private beach, sweetheart. There's never anyone out there. I think it feels liberating and awfully romantic, bathing under the light of the moon. I think you'll like it."

"I don't like it."

Alice wedges herself into a corner, trying to melt into the white tile.

She's not going anywhere.

The shower is spacious, so much larger than her college dorm room, her cell in the prison, her room in the mental ward. It's funny how much her current environment matches her state of mind.

When she was in college, her brain felt split in two and the devil made her heart a double bed.

When she was in jail, her brain felt small. She was a piece of crumpled paper.

When she was in the mental ward, her brain felt blank, just like the walls of her perfect room. Her brain was supposed to look like those walls, empty and stainless.

And now she is in the shower and her mind feels wide.

Neurons are searching for something in the waves of cool mist. They scan the tiled walls and fall down the metal drain. Maybe they are looking for a way out.

Alice stares at the showerhead. A silver square stuck on the ceiling. It's one of those fancy contraptions that lets the water rain down.

Standing beneath it, she is engulfed in an ice-cold squall. Hot water makes her head hurt. Heat of any kind, a stove, a candle, a ray of sunlight, it all takes her back to wintertime.

Drops of hot water turn to rings of red on her skin. And then she's back at that house, white flakes falling, her fingers trying to build castles out of snow.

So she always takes cold showers.

The cold is comforting. You can murder a goldfish with too much cold. The shock will kill it.

But the heat will simply make it fall asleep. Then it will drift into some dream, or maybe it will die. Or maybe it will dream about death and will never know if it is truly alive.

Alice likes the shock of the cold. It keeps her from falling asleep.

She smokes in the shower. The slender, white thing is kept away from the falling water as she exhales a ring of grey smoke.

Her aunt had taken her cigarettes away the second the front door had closed.

An unopened box of Camels lay in the trash. Organic lettuce and organic kale leaves wreath its body, still sealed by tape.

Poor ciggies, they were too young to die.

Alice holds the last survivor. The white paper begins to sag as water touches it.

The droplets slide down her scarred scalp. Water flows across her skin, lily white.

Red scars become more prominent on her shoulders.

But she doesn't care.

Why should she? She's a pale, scarred, half-bald chick with a soft midsection.

She really wishes she had her hair back.

This is still her wish as she wraps herself in a white towel. There is no steam on the mirror, so she can see her reflection clearly.

Green eyes are half-open in the darkness.

That's another thing. She always showers in the dark.

Nothing but moonlight illuminates her face.

If her face was a lunar phase, it would be a waning crescent.

She squints and looks deeper into the mirror.

Wow, she really does look like the blonde version of that girl with the dragon tattoo.

Alice rolls her eyes and brushes her teeth.

After her nightly ritual, she packs everything into a makeup bag. She can't just leave all of her toiletries out; someone might think she intends to stay at this awful house.

Makeup is never stored inside this bag. She bought it because of the color, royal blue. And she likes the quote that is sown on with white thread.

"Tink was not all bad: or, rather, she was all bad just now, but, on the other hand, sometimes she was all good."

It's from one of her favorite books, Peter Pan.

As a child, her nickname had been Tinkerbell, or sometimes just Tink. Her father would say that she was just like a fairy, only able to feel one emotion at a time.

Feeling a sudden bout of irritability, she zips up the makeup bag and leaves the bathroom. She holds tight to the towel as she runs down the hall.

White, plush carpet lines the floor.

Alice hopes that not everything in this house is white.

A bit of color would be refreshing.

The refreshment comes in the form of yellow roses scattered on the floor. They lie amidst water droplets and shards of glass.

Her room is right by the spiral staircase. Placed in the perfect position so that auntie can check on her dear niece whenever she wants to.

Thank God her aunt is asleep right now.

Alice never wants to fall asleep. She lays on the bed upside down, feet resting on one of the white, fluffy pillows.

A year ago, her long pigtails would have hung down and brushed the floor.

The thought of her hair makes her angry. She dives into her first edition of Peter Pan, trying her best to believe in fairies and feeling only one emotion at a time.

She will not fall asleep.

* * *

Computer light through a cracked screen.

Alfred is staring at his bedroom door. It is cracked open, and something…

Something strange just passed by.

Maybe it was the product of a fevered brain, but he thinks he just saw a blonde Rooney Mara go running down the hall.

It must have been a hallucination. Sure, his father is rich, but not rich enough to get Rooney Mara to come over.

He shakes his head and rubs his eyes with white knuckles.

This day has not been easy.

* * *

A recap, broken up by periods of unconsciousness:

After playing Silent Hill: 2, he feels it coming on.

During his nap, he feels it coming on.

But it never comes. Hours go by and nothing happens. The symptoms remains, cold sweats and eye twitches.

Then he feels dizzy, dizzy, dizzy.

The world spins, spins, spins.

While attempting to get a glass of water, he falls into a side table and knocks over a glass vase full of yellow roses.

Emily comes storming up the stairs, cursing like she always does whenever her mother isn't around.

Alfred doesn't like it when she curses at him. But he's learned to block out the bad words. He likes to substitute them with song lyrics.

Sometimes he is even able to finish an entire song.

It's kind of fun.

"What the (Don't) did you do? (Wanna)! You (Be) idiot… (An)! These are mom's favorite roses. You're such a (American) retard. I'm sick of babysitting you. Go back to your (Idiot) room!"

See? He just finished the first line of American Idiot by Green Day.

Maybe Emily will talk some more and he'll get to the chorus.

But Emily stops talking and forces him into his room.

Alfred is a strong guy.

He can't let her push him around.

But he is already dizzy, so there's no point in trying. Everything is colored white, so he hardly notices when the floor becomes the ceiling and he hits the hardwood.

Face first.

The rest of the day is like this. Waking up, falling back asleep, wishing it would just come already.

* * *

And now he is sitting in his room, staring at the bedroom door.

The laptop is switched on. A square of light flickers on his T-shirt.

He's been awake for hours, playing free downloadable games. Lights flash and unscrew his eyeballs, but nothing comes.

No matter. He will continue like this until he induces a seizure.

Maybe then the cold sweats, twitching, tingling, involuntary movements, and dizziness will go away.

Rooney Mara has broken his concentration.

She is running through the halls right now. And he is missing out.

Alfred sighs and closes the laptop. He decides to looks for Rooney.

After all, he is a slightly attractive twenty-three year old with no job and plenty of mental problems.

What has he got to lose?

He hears the door across the hall slam and goes to investigate.

Without knocking, he opens it.

A girl is sleeping upside down on a white bed.

She's wearing blue cotton shorts; the waistband hasn't even been rolled once.

Her bra is small and black.

Alfred can see…

Well, he can't see much since his glasses are lying on the floor in his room. But the hazy outlines and flesh toned smudges are more than enough clues.

He's staring at a beautiful, blonde, Rooney Mara lookalike with a black bra on her breasts and a book on her midriff.

* * *

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed it. Yay for Alfred and Alice finally meeting next chapter lol. Please review :).**


	5. Gold Magnifying Glasses

**A/N: Hope you enjoy this chapter, guys. And please review if you feel compelled to do so! :D**

* * *

Lamplight through a magnifying glass.

It's a vintage piece, burnished gold handle and a long chain draped across the bedside table.

Diamonds of light scatter all over the floor.

Alfred watches as the diamonds dance across the girl's face. Her skin is pale, almost translucent. Her veins are little and blue.

Speaking of blue…

The cotton shorts are making him nervous.

The waistband hovers just above her hips.

If he leans forward.

Lower his eyes.

Tilts his head.

He might be able to see the thin cotton of her…

No. He's not a pervert.

Alfred keeps his distance. He doesn't want another misunderstanding.

Like that one time.

So he stands on the hardwood, hands behind his back. The spotless floor is cold and smooth. His sweaty feet stick to the mahogany planks.

Why are his feet so sweaty?

The chills are starting again. They start in his toes and shoot up his spine. He is a yellow rose, rootless and fake.

A plastic stem sucks up ice and water, pain and anticipation, Carbatrol and sweet, sweet ethylene glycol.

Carbatrol is the name of his medication.

He hasn't taken it in a few days.

But no matter, he doesn't need it. He doesn't want it. He will stand there on the wood floor with his hands behind his back, rocking back and forth on his heels. Pill-less and shameless.

The yellow rose sucks up water and shards of glass.

Don't wanna be an American idiot.

Don't wanna stand here, staring at a beautiful girl, sweaty feet sticking to the floor.

Don't wanna be an American Idiot.

But he can't help it. Alfred is American.

Unfortunately, that makes him an idiot in Alice's eyes.

Alice is awake now.

She's been awake for the last few minutes.

Staring at the blonde haired guy is kind of fun. He's upside down in her vision.

Blue eyes are two upside down raindrops dripping down a pale moon.

If his face was a lunar phase, it would be a waning crescent.

A quivering crescent being swallowed by the sun.

"Are you just going to just stand there twitching?"

The blonde haired guy cocks his head.

"Huh?"

"You're twitching."

"Oh, I know. I always do that. I have a condition."

Diamonds dance across his waning crescent face.

"Does your condition prevent you from saying hello?"

"Uh, no. Sorry, sorry." He waves a trembling hand. "Hi."

The blonde guy is blushing. Red rings appear on his cheeks. Except these rings are soft and warm.

They are filled in with the red paint that is his blood.

Thinking of his warm blood makes her head hurt. She hates warm things. The book lying on her midriff is cold from contact with her skin. A slipstream of cool air conditioning ruffles its pages.

Each yellowed page flutters like a vicious dove.

"So, uh, what are you reading?"

Alice snaps the book shut. "Really? That's your question? Don't you want to know who I am or what I'm doing in your house?"

"I-I don't really know what to ask. I just said the first thing that popped into my brain."

"That can be dangerous." Alice's voice is barely a whisper. She traces Peter Pan's shadow with one finger. "Saying something, doing something that just pops into your brain. That can be very dangerous."

Green eyes are two upside down leaves sliding down a pale tree.

Alice stares at the blonde guy and wonders why he looks so nervous.

"I did something that popped into my brain once. It didn't end too well."

"Ohhhh, I know who you are. You're Alice, the cousin who killed her boyfriend with a knife."

The smile on his face is genuine. He remembers what his stepmom said about Emily's cousin, Alice. Maybe his head isn't so imperfect and messed-up after all.

"You're awfully blunt. Such an American."

She rolls her eyes.

Cracked nails continue to trace Peter's shadow. The outlining process progressively becomes more violent.

Thin fingers run across J.M Barrie's name engraved in the spine. Her fingertips are burnt from cigarette use.

Alfred can smell the smoke that hangs around her. He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. Singed tobacco is such a refreshing smell.

Most of the house smells like nothing, or like some scent meant to induce "calmness". At least, that's what his stepmom says.

Lavender reduces anxiety levels. A group of British researchers say so.

Coconut dulls your natural "fight or flight" response. A pilot study at Colombia University says so.

Peppermint reduces hunger and cravings. Some doctor named Bryan Raudenbush says so.

All of these are perfect for Alfred, an anxious aggressor who favors fighting over fleeing and likes to gorge himself on junk food.

At least, that's what his stepmom says.

So the pungent odor of tobacco is new and sharp.

It cuts right through the haze of the house. Slices the carefully controlled perfection that dilutes the air.

He just realized that Alice is no longer talking.

Last thing she said was "such an American", and now she is quiet, back to lying upside down on the bed and reading her book.

"Alice?"

A red ring appears on his cheek.

"Alice?"

It fades, just like his voice. But Alice doesn't want his voice to fade. She needs something to keep her awake.

"Alice, do you want me to leave?"

"No, I don't."

She doesn't look away from her book.

"T-Then why aren't you talking to me? I know I'm a typical American. I-I'm trying hard not to be like that, it's just…I wanted to come in and see who was in here cause I heard you running through the hall and thought it was Rooney Mara and then I came in and saw you here…and you're wearing a bra, man. Just a bra! So sorry if I'm distracted and came across like a stupid, idiot American!"

His chest is heaving. Sweat beads on his forehead and sudden chills make his toes curl.

Green eyes flicker.

Coughing like empty lighters.

Alice looks at the shuddering blonde boy. "Rooney Mara…huh. What's your name?"

"Alfred."

Alfred. Not a name she expected. Certainly not very patriotic sounding.

"Seems you know my name already. Why don't you lie down? Looks like you're about to have a seizure…or something."

"I just might."

His laugh makes her head hurt.

And yet, it is also somewhat refreshing. The few hours she has spent in the mansion have been awfully quiet. Each passing second is filled with sounds that induce "calmness".

Water dripping from a faucet.

Rustling curtains in the unlit hallway.

Distant waves crashing outside her window.

If she listens now, she can hear the ocean lapping at the golden sand.

The sound of the sea fades.

Alfred's condition is now apparent to her.

He says, "I just might," and this scares her.

A rabbit-hearted girl hiding inside the skin of a fox, a lost little Alice inside a blonde Rooney Mara.

Does she really fear for Alfred's safety, or is this just an illusion?

"Then you should lie down. You can lay right here, Alfred, on the right side of the bed, away from me."

"Oh, all right. If you're sure. I just don't want—"

"Just do it already. I won't bite."

Sure, Alice won't bite. But don't get on her bad side, cause she knows how to work a gun…a knife, too.

"Ok. You better not bite." He laughs again. "A girl in a black bra who bites. Hmm, the black bra biter."

Alfred rolls into bed. He's still laughing.

Words become disjointed as the fever sinks into his bones. Poor Alfred, he's just like James, wandering around in a fog, radio static playing in his ears. If he had his glasses, he would be able to see through the smoke.

His eyes would touch Alice's body.

She is stretched out on the comforter.

Blue cotton shorts, tiny black bra, lily white feet atop the cold pillow.

There's a tattoo on her upper thigh.

A black pirate ship sails upon a sea of alabaster. Sails are raised as it sits motionless beneath a single star. The silhouettes of four children fly over the ship, aiming towards that black burst of ink.

Alice sees Alfred staring. "The second star to the right and straight on 'til morning."

"Is that a quote or something?"

She rolls her eyes again. "From Peter Pan. That's what I'm reading now."

"Oh. Yeah, I know what Peter Pan is. I've seen the Disney movie."

Alice feels her mind contract. The literary part of her brain is hurting. How could he equate watching a cartoon to reading a timeless novel?

"Not the same. You should read the book or at least see the play."

"I'm not that good of a reader. I'm too slow. And they won't take me to any of the theaters."

A thin finger turns a yellowed page. "Why not?"

"I'm too loud and obnoxious, and I 'fidget' too much." He buries his face in one of the pillows. Only his blue eyes and messy blonde hair can be seen. "At least, that's what my stepmom says."

A thin finger flicks a yellowed page. "I wouldn't put much weight on what she says."

"Oh, really? You don't like her, either?"

Alice shakes her head. "Not one bit."

"That's awesome! I mean, it's not awesome that you hate her, but it's nice to know I'm not alone in my feelings. She's a real witch. One time…"

Alfred talks while Alice reads.

He tells her about the time his stepmom locked him in the upstairs bathroom for three days. He tells her about his father who's never around and about Emily, a spoiled brat that studies all week and parties all weekend.

He talks about his meds and his condition, and then he apologizes for talking so much and acting so weird.

* * *

But Alice doesn't mind. She likes hearing him talk.

It keeps her awake.

It's odd that she isn't terrified of Alfred. According to her past, she should be afraid of men and of people in general.

Being alone with the strange blonde haired guy should scare her.

At least, that's what every psychiatrist has told her.

One man with little hair and large spectacles: "It's ok not to trust people."

A woman with red lips and penciled-in eyebrows: "A fear of the male gender is normal after living with an abusive partner. You may feel like you hate them, or you may feel more inclined to please them because you fear their reactions. Please note, abstaining from sexual intercourse and becoming a nymphomaniac are two radical forms of coping with the situation that we want you to avoid."

So many big words and long sentences. They had almost put Alice to sleep.

She isn't afraid of people or of men.

Fear is not wanting to lose something.

There is nothing that Alice wishes to keep.

Therefore, she is not afraid.

Of anything.

Arthur did not take away her sense of security. He took away her ability to want or care.

The only things she cares about now are her cigarettes and her books.

Even those she is willing to throw into the fire.

So, she is not afraid of Alfred or of fire.

As long as he does not touch her, she will be fine. Human contact still makes her nervous.

The black pirate ship is several years old.

It rocks back and forth on her thigh as she lies on the bed and reads.

* * *

Alfred continues to talk.

The red rings have faded from his cheeks.

He's no longer embarrassed.

Alice understands, he can sense it. Sure, her voice is like one of those dry, English scones, and her eyes are vacant and her lack of interest is apparent, but there's something about her.

Could be her accent.

Could be the fact that she smokes and has a tattoo.

But it is most likely her differentness.

Differentness, a word that sounds and looks so wrong. It encompasses its definition better than any other fancy synonym.

Alice is different than the others.

They are blood red roses in identical glass vases.

Alfred is an artificial yellow rose pretending to be red.

And Alice is a miraculous blue rose, impossible in nature, and seemingly impossible in real time.


	6. Silver Hooks

**A/N: Enjoy and please review! :D**

* * *

Imagined light through a hazy dream.

But Alice is not dreaming.

She is not asleep, so she can't be dreaming.

It is the constant fear. Maybe if she falls asleep, she won't breathe right. And then she'll die and sink into a sleep that lasts forever.

So, no, she is not asleep.

These dreams are more like hallucinations. Her brain is tired, but her body will not shut itself down. Gears spin slowly inside a metal skull. They are corroded by ash and smoke.

Green eyes are red in the darkness. Eyelids are half-open as hallucinations settle in.

She likes them. It's like being high without taking drugs.

Back in the mental ward, a bespectacled doctor had found this very interesting.

"You like hallucinating, Alice?"

"Yes."

"Why? Can you explain it to me?"

Green eyes were red in the light. Floor to floor, sky to sky, it was all so white. Her head was shaved and her body cold. Goosebumps pricked her skin. She flinched.

"I…I just like the feeling. Like my head is filled up with water."

"Filled up with water…hmmm." He spoke to her as if she were a child. "Can you tell me what that means?"

"I like…to go…swimming."

That was her only explanation. The doctor had upped her dosage after that.

But now, the pair of horn-rimmed glasses is gone, and she can hallucinate all she wants.

Her white rabbit is sleep deprivation. She follows it without question.

There is a black pirate ship rocking on a sea of white. Alice walks alone on a beach. Footprints are smudges of ink.

Ink is the lifeblood of this vision.

Bloody feet drag across the white sand.

Where is she? Inside Peter Pan?

She's inside the book, not the boy.

Still, violation drags its bloody feet across her brain. The yellowed pages are hallowed ground.

She shouldn't be here.

There's shaking in her spine and skull.

A silver hook dances down her back. He is here. The metal pushes against the ridges of her vertebrae. It is cold, like snow. It comes again, curved and sharp.

But she isn't afraid.

He won't hurt her. As long as his pale hand does not touch her, she'll be fine.

Human contact still makes her nervous.

Luckily, this part of him is no longer human.

"When will you let me touch you, Alice?"

The hook comes across her midriff. It is surprisingly gentle. He doesn't want to hurt her.

"You touch me all the time."

"Not with my hand, Alice."

Human contact still makes her nervous. The thought of warm flesh sends chills down her spine. No, no, the hook is just fine.

It traces little circles on her abdomen.

Her eyes fall on the pirate ship sitting silently on the water. White water slaps her feet. White sand sticks to her toes.

White, white, white. White everywhere.

The circles on her abdomen are white, too.

It's nice…and yet, she somehow misses the red rings that used to dot her skin. Each branding had kept her awake. Now, she falls into a pseudo sleep filled with white sand and the sharp, silver hook.

Shadows flit across the water.

A cloud skims the sky. It looks like an eagle ready to take flight.

The second star to the right is a smudge of black ink.

"Alice, let me touch you."

"No."

She shakes her head, wishing that a piece of hair would fall into her eyes. But nothing does.

Why won't it grow?

Screw it…why won't it grow?

Soft breaths touch the back of her neck.

"Alice, you can't keep running from me."

"I'm not running from you. I'm running from your…hand."

A parade of breaths across her shoulder. Like spackle thrown against a blank wall.

She sighs. "Please…can't we just go back to how things were? You can draw circles on my stomach, keep me awake. Just…just don't touch me."

Human contact. The more she thinks about, the more her head hurts. Pointed silver runs across her scalp.

"Don't touch me."

The breaths come again, faster and faster along her collarbone.

"Oh, I hate being disappointed, Alice. And I hate living in this flawed body. And I hate living in Neverland. And I hate... I hate... I hate Peter Pan!"

There's a flash of metal mixed with light, and then red drips down her face.

Green eyes watch the red slide down the bridge of her nose. Funny, the drops look like rose petals. Alice doesn't feel any pain. She never does. Every night, he gets mad. And every night, he cuts her across her scarred scalp, just above her hairline.

It's all a hallucination, so it's ok.

Peter Pan is just a shadow, the star is just a smudge of black ink, and he is nothing but a floating hook.

Neverland begins to fade.

All around, the fantasy is ripping apart.

Reality tears her paper world in two.

White sand.

No, white comforter.

White waves.

No, white floor.

The black pirate ship is a wardrobe sitting on the floor. The stars are black dots on the ceiling.

Black dots…how strange.

But what is the feeling in her side? Of course she knows the hook isn't real. All of it resides within her imagination.

At least, that's what the doctors had told her.

So what is it?

A small, white thing is pressed against her ribcage. It works its way in between her ribs.

It is not a cigarette.

It's a finger.

The finger is attached to a pale arm, attached to a shoulder blade, attached to a strong body that is attached to a sleeping head.

Alfred lies next to her. He fell asleep some time ago. His eyelids flutter and he occasionally twitches.

But he is not dreaming.

He never dreams.

Inside his brain, it is an inferno. So much heat and pressure.

There is a pinprick of sweet iciness beneath his fingertip. It comes in the form of her bare skin, cold to touch.

Touch.

He is touching her.

No, no, no. This isn't ok.

Alice doesn't scream. Her voice is a low whisper.

"What the hell…"

The hallucination is still fading. Red rose petals are falling past her tired eyes.

And her chest, it hurts.

With each breath, her lungs expand painfully.

Just the usual nicotine withdrawal symptoms.

It's been hours since her last smoke. If she doesn't find a cigarette soon, her head will start throbbing and the coughing fits will start.

But the pain cannot distract her from Alfred's finger.

She feels it in her side.

A knife digging into her ribcage. Her friend from beneath her pillow digging into Arthur's stomach.

It's enough to make her gag.

She growls and rolls off the bed, but not before slapping his wrist with the book.

Alfred whimpers.

His blue eyes pop open in the darkness and his entire body convulses. His feet get tangled in the sheets, and then he tumbles off the side.

The magnifying glass, a vintage piece, is knocked off the bedside table.

With a sharp crack, it breaks.

With a loud thud, he hits the floor.

Alfred and Alice lie on the hardwood. They stare at the ceiling.

Black dots dance overhead. Both of them are breathing hard, their chests heaving.

Alice's mind is a cold snow bank.

Alfred's mind is a blazing inferno.

Why did he touch her?

Why did she scare him?

After a few seconds, Alice finally blinks. Green eyes look sideways at Alfred. She can see him on the other side, lying on the floor.

A white sheet hangs over the side of the bed.

Moonlight pierces the thin material. His body is just an outline. Like seeing a stranger through a shroud.

He turns his head towards her. "Why are you on the floor?"

"I was trying to get away from your finger."

"What?"

"You were touching me. Right here." She points to her protruding ribcage. "Why did you touch me? I hate it when people touch me. Absolutely hate it."

"Oh…well I didn't know I was doing it. I-I was asleep, I guess. S-sorry…"

Red rings appear on his cheeks.

"Don't do it again."

"Ok. I promise I won't, Alice. Sorry..." He looks back up at the ceiling, at the black dots that flicker in the darkness.

Her eyebrows suddenly furrow. They're pretty eyebrows, even if they are unusually thick. Her aunt wants to take her to get them waxed.

She can't imagine that.

Waxing involves touching.

Gross.

The eyebrows crinkle. A starburst appears in between her eyes.

"Wait…why are you on the floor?"

"Oh, uh. Well, you scared me."

He rubs his stinging wrists. They are slowly turning red.

"You didn't need to hit me with your book."

"Whatever." Alice rolls her eyes and watches the diamonds dance across her stomach.

It is quiet.

Listen.

Water is dripping from the bathroom faucet.

Velvet curtains rustle.

Waves slap the seashore.

Alfred's voice is nervous. "So…are you ok? Falling off the bed must have hurt."

"Not really."

She feels numb most of the time. Something as silly as falling off a bed, that can't hurt her.

There is something else, though.

"But my head is killing me."

"Oh, did you hit it on the nightstand?"

"No. It's a symptom of nicotine withdrawal. Your stepmother took my cigarettes away."

"Really? I told you she was mean." He pauses. The thought of his stepmom sends a chill up his spine. "What'll happen if you don't smoke?"

Alice sighs. She really doesn't feel like explaining this.

But for some reason, Alfred makes her want to talk...how odd.

"I'll get a headache, like I have now. Then my throat will hurt, I'll start coughing like an old hag. My appetite will increase, other stuff, too. I…I just won't feel right."

"Nicotine decreases your appetite? Maybe I should start smoking. My stepmom always says I eat too much." He laughs.

His laugh is so loud.

It makes her head hurt even more.

"Wait!" Alfred jumps to his feet. "Did my stepmom throw them out? Cause if she did, I can go get them!"

"Why would you do that? We're not friends."

He shrugs. "I don't know. It's the nice thing to do. Now, where are they? In the big garbage can, the one in the kitchen?"

"I guess."

"Great, this'll be easy. Don't go away, I'll be back in like thirty seconds!"

A smile on his face, he runs out of the room. He doesn't even notice as a shard of broken glass slices his bare foot.

Bloody footprints follow him to the kitchen.

Alice counts the seconds.

She is still in shock.

Why is Alfred doing this? He hardly knows her.

Does he want to touch her?

No, never again. She will never again allow cold fingertips to brush her hair or graze her body.

Arthur was the first and the last.

All thoughts of Arthur should be murdered with a pickaxe.

So she goes back to counting.

Twenty-nine.

Thirty.

"Found them!"

Alfred walks back into the bedroom. He holds a carton of flattened Camels.

"Here you go, Alice." He tosses it to her and then lies back on the floor.

Is that it?

He wants nothing in return?

"Thanks. But why…"

She wants to ask him why he did it and why he didn't just lay on the bed instead of the floor. But his eyes are closed. He fell asleep the moment his head hit the hardwood.

Expressionless, she goes through the carton. A few of the cigarettes are worth saving.

The small, white thing tastes so good in her mouth.

A wave of relief floods her body.

It is not the sounds or smells that produce "calmness".

The cigarette, this is what makes Alice calm.

With it, she can ease the tension and untie the knot in her brain.

But there is still a tiny knot in there. A sloppy bow, like when a child tries to tie their shoes.

Alfred is the child.

His actions are the knot.

Three cigarettes later, and it is still there.

She will have to work at this.

Untying Alfred F. Jones is a task much more difficult than she can imagine.


	7. Pale Fingers

**A/N: Sorry for the late update and for the short length of this chapter. This is just where the chapter ended itself lol. I will update a lot faster, I promise! Enjoy and please review! :)**

* * *

Burning light through crinkled paper.

She smokes the cigarette at the kitchen table.

Fire and ash fall on the cold, white countertop. Her aunt will be furious, but she doesn't care.

It's five in the morning. Pale fingers reach up over the side of the horizon. Alice stares at the sliding glass door, watching as the sun begins to rise. She waits for it, for a massive glowing figure to suddenly appear.

Pale fingers grip the edge.

Pale skin blankets the blue sky.

Blue sky, blue blood flowing through the red hot veins of the sun. She has never felt this way, like she lives inside the burning bulb of the sun.

Not the Earth, with its cool waters and green grass.

But the sun, full of hate and fire.

Her body feels warm. It's a strange feeling.

Typically, she is wrapped up in her snow bank. Cold and alone.

But Alfred has invaded her mind. The snow bank has been tainted by another.

His blue eyes and his face…that stupid, stupid face…

Why is it carved into her brain? Why did he get her a cigarette last night?

She bites down on the little white thing, squinting in the harsh sunlight.

More fire and ash fall onto the countertop.

No sense in worrying about it now, there are other things. More important things.

Like the fact that her aunt is asleep in an empty bed, the fact that Emily is out somewhere getting drunk, the fact that her uncle is standing in front of her, pouring wine into a glass.

"You see? I don't care if you smoke, Alice. I'm not like my wife." He stops when the glass is half-full, or half-empty in Alice's mind. "She's a sophisticated one, my wife. But I'm sure you're sophisticated, too, Alice."

"I'm not gonna bend over and curtsy for you."

She gnaws at the cigarette, drumming her fingers on the white marble.

Her uncle smiles and pushes the wine glass towards her. Just like the glass, he is half and half.

Half in clarity.

Half in a realm of blurriness.

Alice looks at him through her glasses. They're on the end of her nose. Green eyes move up and down, cutting her uncle in half.

She cannot see the smile on his face. In all honesty, she doesn't want to.

The wine is thick and red. Her reflection floats on its bloody surface.

That is where she sees it, the smile.

Unlike his wife, it is not glued on. It is sewn deep into his skin. This isn't a mask, this is his reality.

Alice bites the cigarette in half. It falls to the white countertop.

Breathing hard, an empty lighter gasping in the darkness. She feels her lungs expand painfully.

How did she end up here, again? Only a few hours ago she was lying on the floor, envisioning pirate ships and glancing at Alfred's sleeping body.

And then his presence had bothered her. Each second went creaking by. Each second wound the gears of her mind as she felt him there, asleep on the ground.

Too much smoke, not enough asleep.

Something triggered it, this mini panic attack, and when she looked at Alfred she saw Arthur.

She had bolted out of the room, accidentally kicking Alfred in the head and stepping on the broken glass.

The kitchen was safe and cool. She lit up another cigarette, closed her eyes, and the steak knives became spires.

The florescents, a thousand stars.

The white marble, an endless ocean.

When her eyes had opened, he was there. An uncle with a smile and a bottle of wine.

"What a coincidence, I get up early, too. My wife, she always sleeps in, the lazy bum." A deep laugh. "But I see you're a determined woman, ready to start the day. I like that."

He offered her a glass, she drained it.

What a stupid thing to do, Alice. You bloody idiot.

And she is still sitting in the kitchen, an uneasy feeling growing in the pit of her stomach.

Her reflection wavers in the wine. Still, that smile is there. It's a familiar smile.

Maybe she'll say it again.

"I'm not gonna bend over and curtsy for you."

"Oh, I don't want you to curtsy for me, Alice."

Such a familiar smile.

A red ring should be on her shoulder right now.

But there's nothing there.

It's all in her head right? That's what her doctors used to say.

The smile has hands and fingers. Those are definitely real.

"Don't…don't touch my face."

Her voice is soft and slow.

"Don't…touch…"

"You don't have to curtsy…Alice. You just have to fall asleep, fall fast asleep."

Fingers walk up her protruding spine. Counting the vertebrae, one, two, three, four. "Just fall asleep, Alice."

A strangled whisper. "Don't…want…to."

His fingers entangle in her hair. "Yes you do, darling."

"N-no." Her bottom lip quivers, but the tears never fall.

She can't cry, 'cause she's been silent all her life.

"So nice of my wife…to bring me a new plaything." He sticks his nose into her hair and takes a deep breath. "You're so much prettier than Emily."

Again…why must this happen again?

Alice wishes for her friend to come and save her.

But it's in an evidence locker somewhere.

There is no one. She is alone.

As her eyelids become heavy and her voice lulls, she thinks of the American with stars in his tired eyes.

"Alfred…"


	8. Scarlet Ink Stains

**A/N: Another short chapter, sorry guys. Once again, this is just where this chapter ended ^^", it's like my stories write themselves sometimes. Oh, and I'm now accepting requests for Hetalia oneshots, so feel free to request something. Anyways, next chapter will be 2,000 words or over, promise. Enjoy and please review :). **

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Blinding light through a fevered brain.

His ears are ringing, a blaring siren.

He can see the night sky through the blinds. Everything moves in slow motion.

The moon is choking behind chalk-white clouds. Birds lynch themselves in the fog, their necks wrung by hands dripping with red blood.

Dawn is coming.

This paper world is raw and sore against Alfred's pupils.

But this one isn't as bad. His vision blurs, his muscles twitch.

That's all.

Could be worse.

Alice's foot hits his head in slow motion. Her toenails are short and clipped.

They tickle his face.

Huh…kinda like a feather. A bony feather full of white flesh and red blood. Why must everything be colored?

Can't he live in nothingness for a change?

Nothingness, the absence of color. How about black?

He can feel himself falling unconscious. His brain rocks inside his skull and he flips over onto his stomach, grasping his head with both hands.

Crunch. Facedown in a pile of glass. Color comes. Little red drops that drip down the bridge of his nose.

Shards burrow into his skin. Groaning, he rolls onto his back.

"Why…am I…so…stupid?"

A starburst of blood spreads across his face, sliding down his cheeks and into his eyes.

He is reminded of the Rorschach splatters the lady in white used to show him.

"Examine the image above, what do you see?"

Blue eyes are red in the light. "Uh…I see a scary face in the card."

A pen scratches the pad of paper. "Now, this one."

"Like a tunnel into another dimension…or maybe it's just a picture of New Jersey."

Sweat beads as she pulls out another card.

"This one, Alfred."

"Uh, ok…it's the coast of Italy after an atom bomb, only mirrored."

A pen scratches the pad of paper. The lady's face is emotionless. "Last one, Alfred."

Blue eyes are wide behind his hands. "It's…a m-m…"

The lady's voice is stern. "What do you see? Alfred, stop covering your eyes!"

But he won't.

He can't.

"A monster, a monster with fiery eyes…I'm scared." He trembles. "Where's Matthew? I, I need him."

"Matthew isn't real, Alfred."

The lady is so mean. Why? Why is she so mean?

"He's imaginary, remember? He's a manifestation of your inner fears, Alfred." A pen scratches the pad of paper. A pen scratches her temple as she thinks.

He would love to jam that pen straight into her brain.

"Alfred, could this 'monster' possibly be your father?"

He uncovers his eyes. "Screw you."

And then he tries to jam that pen straight into her brain and more people in white come and he's tied down and bitten by a needle and he is finally surrounded by nothingness…

But back in the bedroom, he is drenched in color.

Stupid Rorschach test. It has caused him so many problems.

Now is not the time to remember such things.

Alfred shakes his head and blinks the blood out of his eyelashes. It just won't stop.

A scarlet ink pattern covers his face.

He stares at the ceiling for a few hours, allowing the blood to dry. When he finally moves his face, it cracks.

Matthew has been gone for a while. Ever since leaving the hospital, Matthew has been missing in action.

So, Alfred is very surprised when he sees Matthew standing over him. He's there, blonde hair, wire-rimmed glasses, a teddy bear in his arms.

"Mattie?"

"H-hey, Al." He waves the bear's paw.

"Why are you here, man? You've been gone forever."

"I know, b-but I have to tell you. Alice n-needs your h-help." Matthew bends down and examines Alfred through his glasses. "Come on. You n-need to get up. H-he got her, you k-know that. Uncover your eyes, Alfie."

Blue eyes are wide behind his hands. The monster is back, fiery eyes and all.

His father has Alice. He knew this would happen.

Stupid Alfred, you should have said something to her.

Matthew is frowning. "Stop crying, Alfie. Get up, b-be a…" He pauses, trying not to stutter on the next word. "Hero. A hero, Alfred."

His body is still. The word 'hero' registers in his brain.

"I can do that. I can be Alice's hero."

"Good. Stop the monster."

"With pleasure." Alfred staggers to his feet. His face creaks with dried blood, but he doesn't care.

The blood will add to the ambiance. He will look like something out of a scary movie, creeping down the stairs and into the basement. And then he will save Alice and stop the monster.

Stop his father.

Kill the monster.

Kill his father, fiery eyes and all.


	9. Citrine Pencils

**A/N: Not exactly 2,000 words+ lol but it's longer than the last two chapters. Enjoy and don't forget to review! :D**

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Electric light through a dusty bulb.

Her world is blurry.

Ships are left to rust and the star begins to fade. The second star to the right. Gasping, it slides down the horizon.

Alice follows it with her eyes.

But is this real, or just another hallucination?

"You like hallucinating, Alice?"

"Yes."

"Why? Can you explain it to me?"

Green eyes are red in the light. Floor to floor, sky to sky, it all looks so familiar…but nothing is white, like before. It is colorless.

Some shapeless thing, sticky and unwanted, pulses around her. She is trapped in a cocoon.

Little legs all tied up. Threads weave through her hair.

The threads are slick with dew.

A cold winter morning, sitting on her porch with a cigarette in between her fingers. Blood trickles down her wrist.

The pencil is still lodged in her arm. She doesn't have the stomach to pull it out.

And, quite frankly, she doesn't care. Her body is numb. Pain has long since faded into apathy.

In the cold she's standing, alone with herself.

Red dots the snow. An icicle snaps and hits the ground.

Silence. Like it never even happened.

Why are her memories of that place always covered in snow? When she was with Arthur, had it always been winter?

But she can't think about that now. Arthur is gone, Arthur is dead.

Dead and gone.

And that memory, the time she had disturbed him while he was writing and he had turned and stabbed her with his pencil and his eyes had been red rings and his words hostile. Why was that worth keeping?

Sitting in the snow, she grabs the broken icicle.

Tears and blood fall.

She traces circles on her chest.

It is cold against her skin. Snowflakes on her cheeks, on the white sheet wrapped around her body.

One layer between her and winter. She shivers and wishes the icicle was sharper. But it isn't. It chips as she draws circles on her chest.

All she can manage is a red ring, raw and burning. She has failed.

Icicles cannot help her, cannot bring her death.

Death is what she wanted then, when she cradled the icicle and tore the pencil from her skin.

She does not want it now. And yet, it may be coming…

Snowflakes on her cheek, sweat on her forehead. Winter melts and the air is hot.

"Where…am…"

Her head snaps back as her eyes open. Individual spots of color collide overhead. The ceiling is grey…how…unexpected.

She blinks and her vision clears.

The basement. The room is dark except for a single light bulb. It sways on an invisible string.

Back and forth, the sails that shudder in the wind.

The leaves that spin in the summer air.

The stars that shake in the sky.

Again, could it all be an illusion?

"You like hallucinating, Alice?"

"Yes."

"Why? Can you explain it to me?"

Her head was shaved and her body cold. Goosebumps pricked her skin. She flinched.

"I…I just like the feeling. Like my head is filled up with water."

"Filled up with water…hmmm." The doctor spoke to her as if she were a child. "Can you tell me what that means?"

"I…I want to drown."

She gasps as her mind is yanked into reality. The past has vanished. All around her, the present moves and breathes. She feels it in her brain, her heart, her soul, in every crevice of her body. She feels it and wants to scream.

She was right before, it is the basement.

The floor is carpet and the walls are painted black. That light bulb…it really is there, still swaying.

Alice squirms in her cocoon. Her web is made of ropes and steel.

She hangs, her feet inches from the ground.

Pale hands are bound. Her wrists are bloody. White bones strain beneath her skin. It is pointless; there is no escaping her cocoon.

All at once, she notices the pain.

So much in such a short time.

Three seconds and she's panting, trying not to vomit as her eyes find her body.

Red handprints embrace her abdomen and thighs. Angry lines cut across her flesh.

Painted blue, purple, and black, she aches.

Blood…blood drips slowly down.

She feels it on her back, the familiar sensation. Cigarette burns and something else…

The sting of a whip.

"He…did this…to me…"

A strangled whimper and her eyes go wide. She cries and writhes. The ropes are too strong.

Why? Why did this have to happen ag—

No, she must stop this.

Stop thinking, stop panicking.

Stop caring.

Caring will not get her out of this. It does nothing for her.

Deep breaths.

I. Can't.

No, you can.

Breath deep. The darkness becomes her oxygen. Green eyes are red in the light. Red from the blood that creeps across her forehead.

Her skin is taut across her ribcage.

Poor Alice, the rabbit hole has stretched her out, made her thin. She is a skeleton hanging by a thread.

But there is an advantage. Her wrists, they're trapped by handcuffs.

Handcuffs attached to heavy rope.

Wriggling out of a woven knot would be impossible…but these, these…

She can escape a pair of handcuffs.

Her thumbs are already brittle. It will be like snapping a pencil in half. Hell, this will be easy.

Soft skin of her palm, rough pattern of fingerprints. She tries to touch them, but her fingers are too short.

She needs it, the feeling of skin, knowing that this is still her body.

And her body alone.

She sees a friend at work, sitting at a desk with a cup of coffee in hand. "Friend" might be a bit of an overstatement.

Alice has never had a friend.

It is an innocent question. She asks it as she twirls her hair. The hair she used to love.

"Hey, do you, uh, know of any way to get out of handcuffs?"

"Handcuffs?" A few drops of coffee on a lip-sticked mouth. "Geez, Alice, have you and Arthur been getting a little kinky lately?"

There's the wink. The utterly obnoxious wink from a woman that will never understand.

"N-not really. No. I was reading a crime story the other day and I was just wondering."

She glares at the pencils rolling down her desk. They're ready to fall. But she won't stop them; she can never touch a pencil again.

"I was just wondering. Maybe the woman in the story would have escaped if she had known how to get out of handcuffs.

One pencil, then another, falls to the floor.

Long yellow things that remind her of the small white thing in her desk.

She wants to smoke so bad.

"Whatever you say, Al." Another wink. "Well, I heard once that you could break your thumbs. But that sounds awfully painful, don't you think?"

Don't you think, Alice?

No, no not really.

In the basement, she breaks her thumbs.

Fingers find the small bones and press hard.

Press hard. Like Arthur's hands on her throat.

Press hard. Like the ice pack on her forehead.

Press hard. Like her body against the knife, driving it into his stomach.

Ivory cuts her lip. She hisses at the taste of iron.

Tears roll down her face.

Her hands go limp and slide out of the handcuffs. It's a swift movement; she is out of her cocoon and lying on the floor.

Lying in a crumpled heap. She is buried under the snow.

The light bulb is still swaying, throwing her shadow all over the carpet.

Alice hears the voices in her head.

"Shadow? Whose shadow?"

"Peter Pan's!"

And now her reality shines through:

"Shadow? Whose shadow?"

"No one's…just Alice's. Just Alice. No one is looking for her. There, I see her shadow, but not her body. She isn't there. She never was."

Pain and fear drive her mad. She feels the silver hook across her back, tastes the drugged wine on her tongue. All of it makes her cry.

Tears drip down. Kisses on her cheekbone.

Kisses. More like needles.

She is the black-haired version of herself, the woman that she saw lying on the bed. The man sitting beside her on the airplane had not given the girl with the dragon tattoo a second glance.

No one ever does.

Above, the ceiling is shaking. Someone is running across the floor?

Flakes of white float through the air.

Pour the dust into her broken hands.

They dangle in front of her. Each breath makes them shiver.

A handle is turning in the darkness. The door across the basement, it is opening.

"Please…don't…"

It's him behind that door. Alice can feel it. The shapeless thing is back, sticky and unwanted, pulsing around her. She realizes how much her stomach hurts.

Another handle is turning. The door at the top of the stairs.

A hallucination, must be.

No one is looking for her.

Which will open first?

Footsteps on wood. He comes down the stairs, blood on his face, bare feet full of splinters.

The stupid American.

How…why is he here?

He doesn't just see the shadow. He sees Alice.

"Alfred?" Her voice is mangled. "Why?"

He smiles at her and his face cracks.

"I came to rescue you, Alice. I'm your hero now."


	10. Purple Bruises

Candlelight through a doorway.

A rectangle flickers across the carpet.

The glitter making love to the gleam. It would almost be beautiful if…if this wasn't happening.

If he wasn't holding her half-conscious body in his arms.

Her head lolls to one side. Those lips, the ones that look so soft, they mumble phrases.

"Can't be real…this can't be. Can't be."

"No, it is, Alice. I'm here."

She shakes her head. "Can't be…"

"But I'm real, Alice. Seriously, I am!" Hands, covered in bits of glass and blood, grasp her face. He pulls her close. "I swear…I'm real."

Alfred looks at Matthew, who is kneeling beside him. "Can she not see me or something?"

"N-now you k-know how I feel." His blue eyes look sad. "B-but that's n-not it. She can see you, Alfie. She's just in shock. Who wouldn't b-be?"

He touches her with the bear's paw. "Look what your father did to h-her, Alfie."

So he does. His eyesight is unfocused without his glasses, but he's trying his best.

It might not be enough.

Through hazy outlines and flesh-colored shapes, he sees a blonde Rooney Mara.

Lying motionless, she looks dead.

But she's not.

He can feel her heartbeat just below her ear. Bruises cover her skin. Painted black, purple, and blue.

Another victim of his father's artistic obsession.

The house is like a museum. The walls are white. The floors are clean.

And there are dozens of paintings.

Still Life on a Table.

Misshapen Diamond.

A Well-meaning Hell.

He's never liked that last one. A painting of a boy playing the piano, his mother scolding him from behind. The mother is a large red thing in a dress.

She reminds Alfred of his father.

Large, red, and scary.

Except the Hell he induces is not well-meant.

A Rorschach splatter. A scary, scary monster with fiery eyes.

Alfred shivers.

Matthew's voice is stern. "Stop it. H-heroes don't shiver."

He nods and keeps looking.

There are handprints on Alice's side, slashes on her back.

Stupid American. You knew this was going to happen. You know how "he" is.

"I know. Stop it."

Tears wriggle in between clenched teeth.

The rectangle on the carpet is growing.

He is out of time.

There is no running from a monster.

"Wake up, Alice."

Growing like cancer.

"Alice, listen to me, you have to wake up."

Spreading all over the body. Fire in the bloodstream.

He grabs her shoulders.

A little too hard, maybe. Just a little.

"Alice! Get up, he's here!"

But she's gone. Lost in a starless Neverland. Inside her mind, she huddles in a corner and screams.

What happened to all of your strength, Alfred?

You were going to kill him, remember?

Like some creature out of a horror movie. You were going to creep down the stairs, eyes full of Freddy and Jason. And you were going to whisper something.

Maybe a line from the Shining?

"Wendy? Darling? Light, of my life. I'm not gonna hurt ya. You didn't let me finish my sentence. I said, I'm not gonna hurt ya. I'm just going to bash your brains in."

Alice said that she likes Peter Pan.

Alfred wonders, what if Peter said that to Wendy? What a strange book that would be.

Matthew's hand is on his shoulder. "Focus, Alfie. I can see him through the crack in the door."

The rectangle becomes an arc of light.

His father is a dark shadow.

In one hand, the man holds a candle. In the other, a kitchen knife.

Every word is soft and pointed at the same time.

"Why are you down here, Alfred?"

"I-I'm not down anywhere. I'm here, just here. Not doing anything."

"Oh, I think you're doing something. You're messing with your father's stuff again."

He sees the ink splatter across his father's face.

"What stuff?"

"That stuff." His father points to Alice's limp body. "That is mine."

"Fine, fine."

His eyes roll across the room. The carpet, the empty handcuffs, the limp thing in his arms. He will look at anything but the monster.

"I-I'm sorry, Dad. Seriously, I am." He jumps when Matthew elbows him. "Stop it, Mattie! No, shut up, shut up. He'll hear!"

His father's laugh is cold. "Still talking to your invisible friend? Matthew isn't real, Alfred."

His father is so mean. Why? Why is he so mean?

Blue eyes are hidden behind white hands.

"He's imaginary, remember? He's a manifestation of your inner fears, Alfred." Another cold laugh. "That's what that idiot psychiatrist said, right? Stupid woman. Wanna know what I think?"

He would love to jam that knife straight into his father's brain.

"Here's what I think. You're just a crazy psychopath!"

He uncovers his eyes. "Like you?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"That you're a monster and I don't give a hell what you say! I won't let you hurt Alice again!"

All at once, her head hits the carpet.

Alfred is gone, running across the room, aiming straight for the hideous ink splatter.

It's funny.

Up close, the monster isn't so scary.

It is just an ink stain. A stain that needs to go away.

He tackles his father. The knife bites him in the ribcage.

But it doesn't hurt.

Metal glances off bone. Blood splatters onto the carpet.

They fall.

Alfred is on top of him, punching his face. White knuckles bore into the eye sockets. Again and again. A bruise blossoms. With each strike, more petals unfurl. Alfred remembers the roses inside the vase.

The artificial yellow ones.

The impossible blue ones.

Alice is his blue rose. And this man hurt her.

Wait. Who is this man?

Beneath the white knuckles, he sees a Rorschach pattern.

No eyes, no mouth, no face.

"Next card, Alfred?"

"It's a Rigelian Brain Eater from Star Trek, has to be."

The woman taps that obnoxious pen against her temple. "Next?"

"Uh, that's a bad acid trip I had a Styx concert once. Haha…just kidding. Oh, whatever."

That pen is like that knife. He wants to jam it straight into his father's brain.

Destroying this ink blot will be easy. It isn't human. It is a monster, one that has followed him for his entire life. And he will tear it apart.

The blood flowing down his side is neither hot nor cold. His body is numb.

White-knuckled hands continue their attack. His father's face is purple and bloody. A few pieces of ivory lie around the open mouth.

"Think. Your. Slutty. Wife. Would. Like. You. Now?"

Eight punches for eight words.

Alfred can hardly see his target. All of it is just a blurry mass of color. Every grunt of pain tells him that he is hitting his mark.

He punches the cheekbone and hears a crack.

Almost there. But where is the knife? It's gone, spinning across the carpet.

The blade is stopped by a naked foot.

She stands there, swaying, her head cocked to one side. She must have woken up during the fight.

Of course she woke up; she hates sleep.

The knife twirls in her hand. Green eyes are red and hazy in the light.

She looks at Alfred. "Together?"

He smiles. His teeth are flecked with blood. "Together."

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**A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed it :). Just so you all know, the names of the paintings in Alfred's house are from Ib (a great game that I recommend to everyone) and I take no credit for them.**

**Please review! **


	11. Melanoid Tar

UV light through smudged glass.

The sun is hot.

Alice is melting like candy. Sweetness slips through her veins.

Some kind of syrup, warm and wet, sticks to her skin.

It feels strange. Like she's been dipped in a vat of…something. And she feels it all over. On her face, her hands, her chest. Inside, too.

Her organs are swimming in black syrup.

Maybe she has Anthrax.

Her laugh is hollow. Anthrax, that would be ironic and funny. But it's not that.

She has felt this before.

Insides bloated and swollen, her mind filled with tar.

It is all in her head, she knows that.

Still, it is a feeling she cannot shake.

She has felt this before.

Back at that house, in the land of eternal snow. She sat on the floor, wrapped in a white sheet. Rocking back and forth, the tar flowed in. Air into a tire. And she overflowed.

Now she is waiting. The cigarettes will take this feeling away, if only for a little while.

Tar in her lungs replaces the tar in her head. Again, very ironic.

This is Alice. Putting stuff in, never taking stuff out. She is a waning crescent.

Darkness devours her and she allows it to advance.

Because once her light has faded, she isn't really gone. A new moon is still a lunar phase.

Only now, the darkness has become her.

Nothing like Alfred.

He is also a waning crescent, except he fights back. Maybe it is his "Americaness" that makes him so rebellious.

Alice blows a puff of smoke and smiles. Americans, never know when to quit, do they?

Because he sure doesn't.

Alfred keeps going. He pushes against the darkness and coughs the tar from his lungs.

But doesn't he know that it is all a cycle?

What is waning now will be waxing tomorrow. What is new will eventually be full.

This is Alfred. Taking stuff out, never putting stuff in.

He has already puked twice. Four seconds ago, leaning over the garbage can by the bus station. And once before, after they killed his father.

Blood flows down his side. Bile drips down his mouth.

He's a mess, falling apart on the sidewalk.

Alice isn't like him. She is strong. Her stomach is strong. All those years being force-fed by Arthur have paid off.

She watches him. Sitting on the sidewalk and rocking back and forth.

He looks like a child who ate too many sweets.

Luckily, there is no one at the bus station.

"W-we k-killed h-him." The rocking gets faster and faster. "K-killed h-him!"

"You did, technically. I just helped. Loosened the pickle jar before you opened it."

"Godddddd, don't talk about food!" Moaning, he lies on the sidewalk and covers his eyes.

"Or what? You gonna spew all over me?" She hauls the smoke into her lungs and sighs. "Toughen up."

Suddenly, he looks angry. "I just stabbed my father to death, ok? Give me a break! And what about you?"

Green eyes flit, insect-like. "What about me?"

"Shouldn't you be more upset, like I am? I mean, you did just get…you know…"

"Yeah, I know."

Another long haul.

"So…shouldn't you go to the hospital or something? You broke your own thumbs, aren't you in pain?"

"_You _should go to the hospital. I'm not the one bleeding. Besides, I only need two fingers to smoke. Can't feel anything, anyways." The ash spirals into her lungs. Logically speaking, she should go to the hospital. She knows that.

But people in uniform never help.

Those in blue, in white, all they do is lock you up and take what little life you have left. You become the "accused", the "suspect". The supposed killer of another human being.

And no one listens until it is too late.

Self-defense plea…yeah, right. Alfred has a history of insanity and double jeopardy won't save a foreigner with murder in her records.

So the hospital is out.

"I'm fine, Alfred. You're the one that needs help."

"I d-don't n-need—"

"Yes, you do. You're stuttering like Billy Bibbit, puking left and right, and there's blood pouring from that knife wound. You are the one that needs help!"

Teeth bite the cigarette in half. Great…she only has three left.

"How come you're so talkative now?"

Stupid American. Why does he have to look at her like that?

"Alice, why are you yelling?"

"It's about damn time I start yelling!"

She stands over him. Pale fingers, dipped in blood, grab his collar and yank him to his feet.

Green on blue. Eyes look red in the sunlight.

"We're leaving. We have to hide, get away this place."

"Ok, ok. But where do we go, Alice?"

He looks scared. Red rings on his cheeks and blood in his hair.

There is the rusty bench. The glass partition covered with advertisements.

A bus will come soon.

Picking up two kids drenched in blood, something the driver will not do.

Her nails dig into the cotton.

"I don't know. Just not here." She swallows hard. The words are a knot in her throat. "You...went looking for me. And so I have to help you. You're sick."

She sounds like Wendy: _"I propose something far more dreadful. Medicine. The sticky, sweet kind."_

A small white thing near her face. His finger hovers above her skin.

He wants to hold her cheek in his palm. Show her that she's safe now.

Wait…don't touch her Alfie, don't touch her.

Oh yeah, almost forgot.

He curls his hand into a ball. It falls to his side. He hears her exhale, sees her body shudder.

"We're both sick, Alice. You and me."

* * *

She thinks about this as they leave the sidewalk.

He walks slowly behind her, occasionally stopping and bending forward with his hands on his knees.

"You'll get used to it. I did."

Yes, the first time is always the hardest.

The first time she and Arthur made love, she cried and begged him to stop.

The first time she killed a man, she cried and begged herself to stop.

She lights another cigarette.

They'll stick to the trees. Palms and white alders.

West Los Angeles, full of rich people lounging in their pools and walking on the beach.

No one will notice two shadows as they walk beneath the fronds.

The sun is still blazing.

Alice will never understand the heat.

England is wet and rainy.

Alfred taps her shoulder. "Del Rey Lagoon Park. Open dusk to dawn. I'll lead the way."

He walks ahead.

Does she have any other choice but to follow?

The day drags on.

Look up. Orange fingers touch the sky.

Alfred cries and moans and falls to his knees in the high grass. Matthew comforts him. Alice sticks to the trees, the cigarette dangling from her mouth.

And she wonders how this all came to be. How two mentally unstable people ended up at a bus stop, sick and covered in blood.

* * *

**A/N: Thanks for reading :). Next chapter, I will explain the death of Alfred's father in detail, so look forward to that xD. Anyway, please vote in my poll about what character I should introduce into this story next. It would mean a lot.**

**Hope you enjoyed and please review!**


	12. Green Seed Pods

Afternoon light through green fronds.

They are resting in a field of locoweed. How appropriate.

Butter yellow flowers are sprinkled with blood.

Alfred is half-conscious. The knife wound is taking its toll. Alice is half-sane. Her hands are on fire.

At the bus stop, her broken thumbs had felt numb. Cold water in her veins. It had all been some weird dream. But now, lying amidst the yellow buds, they hurt.

Bones, shattered into seashell crumbles. Skin, stained purple with blood.

She bites her tongue. Crying will not do any good.

There are green pods around her head. Split down the middle, they expose their seeds.

She wonders what animal tore them open.

The American is talking in his sleep. "Mattie…I'm bleeding out."

"The hell is Mattie?"

The rustle of seeds in high grass. No answer.

Maybe he is just hallucinating. Americans hallucinate, too, right? When she closes her eyes, she is in Neverland. Hook is pulling Tinkerbell's wings. Back at the hospital, she went to other places.

Camelot. Narnia. Some strange land inhabited by rabbits with wings.

Flowers brush her face. Black eyelashes blink back green seeds.

Where is she now?

Illusionary land, or someplace else?

Alfred stirs beside her. Through crisscrossing blades, his body is broken up.

A blood stained side, a nodding head. Hair like straw touches skin like clouds. Yellow for the flowers, white for their innocence before life took it away.

The blank page before the ink splatter.

"Get up, we can't stay here."

Alice stands up. "Get up, Alfred. The park, take us there."

The palm tree is smooth. She leans against it, her head crooked on her neck.

Pour the seeds into her broken hands.

"The park…we have to—what are you doing?"

He stands in front of her. When did he get there?

His shirt is torn at the hem. Blood drips down his body. Fresh paint down a wall.

"Here, let me see your hands. Mattie said this would help."

Thin cotton is wrapped around her fingers. She stares at the pieces of fabric, speechless.

They feel soft.

A long time ago, a soft blanket was pressed to her face. Her father held her in his arms. Stubble tickled her cheek. He hadn't shaved in days. But she didn't care. Snuggled up beside him as the storm raged outside, everything was all right.

The blanket smelled like rose-water and sugar. Just like Queen Elizabeth's perfume.

He told her about that all the time. "Did you know, Tink, that Elizabeth the first wore perfume? Just like Mummy used to."

Green eyes widened. "Was Mummy a queen, Daddy?"

A rough laugh. "Of course, Tink. And you're my little princess."

A long time ago, things were so simple.

They walked hand in hand. Raindrops hit their umbrellas as they explored London.

Purple lobelia blossoms were blooming.

She loved those pavement plants.

Now, the pavement is hot. Flowerless.

Alice looks at her hands.

"Uh, thank you."

"No, don't thank me. I'm your hero; I'm supposed to help you." Alfred smiles.

A mix of tears and blood coat his teeth.

"There's no such thing as heroes."

"Of course there is, Alice. There are bad guys, so there has to be heroes, too."

"Whatever." Green eyes are red in the light. Red from anger…and something else.

Gratitude? Surprise?

She's bleeding out. Seeds and tar slip through her veins. What's left of her hair starts to itch.

"We have to go. Lead the way."

* * *

Butter yellow blossoms are far behind them. They tiptoe through the grass.

Over mansions and pools. Black sunglasses sit in lawn chairs, tanning.

Such fancy furniture for a backyard.

Alice wipes the sweat off her forehead. Bloody sun. Causing all this pain.

How are the sun and Alice's uncle the same?

In every way, except the sun doesn't mean to be.

Her uncle. It's funny, they killed him earlier today. He melted like red gumballs under the sun.

A memory, however brief. Covered in red, ruby, scarlet, and crimson.

* * *

Alfred is on top of him.

The knife twirls in her hand. Green eyes are red and hazy in the light.

She looks at Alfred. "Together?"

He smiles. His teeth are flecked with blood. "Together."

""A-Alfred, y-you didn't mean to h-hit me, right? It was an accident. You would never hurt me, right, Alfred. Alfred, you love me, you need me. I-I'm your father!"

His blue eyes are vacant in the darkness. Sockets full of fire.

"Alfred, you w-wouldn't k-kill me, right?!"

You were going to whisper something. Remember, Alfred?

_Oh yes, I remember._

"Not by myself."

Alice can hear him smiling. She drags her feet across the carpet.

Head crooked on her neck.

"Never…by yourself."

These words taste foreign on her tongue.

The blade is sharp. Alice feels it, hears it, tastes it. "Never…alone."

And then they are both on top of him. Alfred breaks his nose with his fist. Alice breaks his heart with her knife.

Killing is a lot of work. Downward motions. Fingers pounding a keyboard. His skin is paper in a shredder. Alice is the experienced boss. Alfred, the young secretary. Instead of making love in the break room, they make murder in a basement.

Because the most intimate act between two people is murder.

She shows him the ropes. Crack the ribs first; you want the pain to last. But claw out the eyes last, that way he can know who killed him.

Her job is tedious. It's paperwork. She stabs him over and over again. Blood spews out.

The carpet is painted. Red is everywhere.

Just like the day she killed Arthur.

Her work day is long. Now, revenge means nothing. It's boring. A dull blade pierces a piece of lifeless meat.

Together, they cut him to ribbons.

And then it is done.

Dressed in their red work clothes, they leave the basement.

They walk through a hazy dream.

A museum filled with strange art. Yellow roses lying on the floor.

Alfred hasn't stopped shaking. He throws up on the perfect floor.

Blood is smeared across the perfect door.

Alice squints in the bright sunlight. Freedom, finally. Warm and strong, melting the blood right off her face…

* * *

"I feel like I'm melting, Alice. Haha…"

She gasps. The memory is fading. Where is she now?

"Alice. Hey, did you hear me?"

He sits next to her. The slide is small, but they've managed to squeeze themselves in.

Of course it's small, it was made for children.

_Oh yeah, we made it to the park._

Del Rey Lagoon Park is open from dusk to dawn. Luckily, the playground is empty right now.

Most people are walking on the beach. Kids build sand castles there.

They would rather play in the open ocean than in a jungle gym.

Good, Alice does not want them there, anyways.

She sighs and leans against the plastic. How they got here, she doesn't remember. Hours of walking, her broken hands hanging at her side. Or had it been minutes of walking, maybe even days?

Blood pools inside the slide. Alfred is slowly bleeding out.

This day has been long. And now that she's sitting down, static inside her own mind, she feels everything.

Pain, anger, fear, disgust.

The reality of what has happened to her, to him, it all comes crashing down.

"Alice. Hey, you ok?"

Alfred is trying very hard not to touch her. But she looks so lost, he wants to hug her.

Matthew shakes his head. "Don't do that, Alfie."

"I'm not stupid."

Alice pushes reality away for a while. "I never called you stupid."

Red rings appear on Alfred's cheeks. "I know, I know. Sorry."

She shrugs. There isn't much else to do.

She could always take a nap. After all, her body is exhausted.

No, no. Your mind isn't tired. Stay awake, Alice.

If she falls asleep, she might not breathe right.

Mangled thumbs touch the plastic. Nothing but a puddle of blood.

Warm blood that makes her cringe.

There's so much of it. Apparently, the American is full of hot blood that just keeps flowing. He reminds her of someone. A character from a film she saw long ago.

This kid, he kept walking. He was shot and slipping in his own blood, and he kept walking. He was carrying someone, too. A girl that he loved.

Alice cannot remember the name of the film.

It was a foreign film, she knows that much.

As she thinks, a man climbs on top of the slide. No one hears him. His bare feet are quiet in the sand.

But the irony would kill Alice.

The film she's thinking of, it comes from Japan.

The man sitting atop the hollow slide, he comes from Japan.

Life, such an ironic little slut.


	13. Pink Cherry Blossoms

Shaky light through half-open eyelids.

Alfred is waking up. What he is waking up to, he doesn't know.

Just blurry images that could be anything. A spinning hurricane high up in the sky. Lightning swirling in darkness, white, yellow, and blue.

Like that storm on the surface of Jupiter. Maybe that's where he is, somewhere in space. He might be dead. It's possible. And now he's floating through nothing, looking at a…hurricane?

A spinning top?

A ceiling fan?

Slow blades turn. High up in the sky, there is a fan. It's a ceiling. So he must be in a house.

Red fuzz cloaks his eyes. The world is hard to see. Without his glasses, it is even harder. But that's not what's hindering him.

Blood is on fire in his veins. If he has enough blood left to set ablaze. A hole in his side makes him feel empty.

There is a milk puzzle hanging on a wall in his house. Completely white, it took his stepsister five hours to complete it. Alfred stole the right corner once. Now there is a missing piece.

The hole in his ribs is his missing piece. A twinge of pain; his fingers curl.

"Where…am…I?"

"In H-Honda's h-house." Matthew is lying beside him. His eyes are wide and worried. "I'm h-happy you're awake."

"Honda?"

A nod. "Yeah, I saw h-his n-name on an envelope in the kitchen. H-he seems pretty n-nice. After all, h-he did save you."

"Wait, just wait. What is going on?" Fog is still rolling through Alfred's brain. He can't connect the dots. Honda, envelope, kitchen?

"Mattie…what happened?"

"You passed out in the slide. H-Honda found you and then—"

"But where's Alice? Who's Honda?" He goes to grab Mattie's collar. Of course, there's nothing there. Just white sheets and a clear tube.

Tube leading to his arm, connected to his veins, pumping liquid into his system.

"What is going on?!"

He tries to tear it out, screaming about fiery monsters and Rigelian Brain Eaters. Mattie's in the way. Semi-solid form floats over the tube, grabs his face and stops his hands.

"Alfred, stop it! You're just going to h-hurt yourself!"

"Shut up, Mattie! Get off me!"

He punches the air. Why can't he hit Mattie? Oh, that's right…Mattie isn't real.

Non-existent. He's never been real and he will never be real.

There's nothing there. Just a pillow.

The punches subside. Adrenaline fades. Fog slips slowly out of his brain. Now the pain sets in.

Like a knife in his side.

Wait…he was stabbed earlier today. So the feeling is to be expected. Flames eating his flesh, boring into his bones. The monster got him, got him good.

_You killed him, remember? Sure, he stabbed you, but you killed him, Al. He will never hurt you again._

"That's right. He's gone…"

Groaning, he sits up. Sweat drips down his forehead. He wipes it off and looks around.

The tube bulges in his wrist. A bag of fluid drips beside him, the sheets are white and crisp. Almost looks like a hospital room. But it can't be.

The carpet is a dull red. A vase of cherry blossoms sits atop the bedside table.

Pink petals on the floor.

Clean light, ticking clocks, soft sheets, scattered socks. Alfred takes a deep breath. It smells like Asian pear, something else, too.

Ramen noodles?

He licks his lips. His stepmom never lets him eat junk food.

Someone is cooking in the kitchen. Dishes clink, water runs. Beyond the bedroom door, this "Honda" person exists.

Unlike Mattie, he is real.

Maybe Alfred should look for him?

The carpet is soft beneath his feet. His shirt is gone, replaced by neat bandages.

"Don't forget to thank, H-Honda." Mattie is back, cowering in the corner.

"I won't. And I'm sorry I hit you, Mattie." Fists clench and unclench. "I'm really, really sorry."

"It's ok. Just go and find h-him, that'll make it up to me."

"Fine."

Walking is harder than he thinks. He shuffles across the floor, pulling the IV stand behind him.

The door closes, cutting off Mattie's pleas of, "Be careful! Don't tear out the IV!"

Blue eyes examine the hall. Same red carpet. Mirrors of all shapes and sizes adorn the white walls.

A fractured reflection looks back at him. Shards of his face, cut and bruised. There is a Band-Aid across his nose.

Alice would probably call it a plaster.

He stares at the mirror. "Alice…"

He'll find her, but first he has to find Honda. Whoever that is.

Following the smell of ramen is easy. Down a hallway, take a left, a right, another narrow corridor. This house is huge. There are pink petals lying randomly on the floor.

The noodles are chicken-flavored. Alfred can almost taste them, he's so close.

Another right and he's there.

A wide and empty kitchen. Sunbeams touch stainless steel. A black haired man leans over a stove. He has a bandana wrapped around his head, an apron at his waist.

Alfred cannot see his face. But he hears him humming. Some slow tune that Alfred has never heard before.

"Uh, are you Honda?"

"Hmm?" He turns around. A wooden spoon dangles from his mouth. He takes it out and smiles slightly. "Oh, you're awake. That's good. How are you feeling?"

Alfred shrugs. "Ok. It kinda hurts when I walk, but I'm fine."

"I'm glad you're alright. You were in pretty bad shape when I found you." His voice is soft and serious. "And yes, I am Honda. Dr. Kiku Honda. But you can just call me Kiku."

"Kiku…oh, ok. So, you're a doctor?"

Making small talk is difficult for Alfred.

"Yes, I am." The spoon is placed on a paper towel. The ramen simmers in a pot. "That is why I did not take you to the local hospital. I knew I could tend to you myself."

"Oh, well, thank you for that. Really." He pulls nervously at his hair, a habit he adopted from Mattie. "So, where's Alice, the girl I was with? Is she here?"

Kiku's bangs fall into his eyes when he nods. "She's upstairs, asleep. She helped carry you to my house and then she just collapsed."

"Holy crap is she ok?"

"Yes, for the most part. She's just exhausted. But her bruises are pretty bad and her thumbs are severely broken." Kiku takes a step forward. Sunbeams touch his pale face. "And it would appear that she has been assaulted…"

"I swear that wasn't me! I'll tell you the whole story, I sw—" Alfred hisses when he hits the back wall. Stupid idiot, walking backwards with your hands raised. You didn't do anything wrong.

"Calm down. Alice told what happened."

"She did?"

More strands of hair in his blank eyes. "Yes. She is a very blatant person. Straight to the point. I know that she was attacked by your father and that you rescued her. I also know that your father is now dead."

Alfred is flat against the wall. Eyes wide. He can feel the blood seeping through the bandages. "I-I don't understand…why would she tell you that?"

"Because I am a friend, not a foe." Kiku looks up at him. His eyes are flat as paper.

Alfred feels it coming on. A tingling that starts in his toes. Why is this man so scary? "And, and how do we know that?"

"Because I am just like you two. Ironically, your father was next on my list. Did you know he's been accused of sexual assault four times?"

"Uh…no, I didn't. But what do you mean, 'next on your list'?"

Kiku stares at him for a while. Then he walks back to the stove. Noodles sizzle as he pours them into a bowl.

"I told you, I am a doctor. I take care of good people, like you and Alice. And I 'take care' of bad people, like your father, if you know what I mean."

For some reason, Alfred's shoulders relax. It must be the smell of the chicken-flavored ramen. Connecting the dots is not a specialty of his. "I don't exactly follow. Sorry."

Kiku sighs and walks back over to Alfred. "You know Dexter, that television show?"

He can't help but eye the bowl of steaming ramen in Kiku's hands. "Yeah. I've watched it online before."

"Well, I am the Japanese version of Dexter."

Poor Alfred, he really deserves his nickname. Stupid American. "So you…?"

Kiku runs his hand down his face. He takes a deep breath. "I enjoy killing scumbags and I was targeting your father but it appears that you two killed him first. And for that, I thank you." He raises the bowl towards Alfred's face. "Now, would you like some ramen?"

* * *

**A/N: Hope you all enjoyed :). Kiku is going to be a little dark in this story, so prepare for some creepy yet cute Japan moments haha. Anyways, just wanted to tell you all that in case Kiku ever appears a little OOC. He might even assume his 2P personality, who knows. Well, hope you liked this chapter and please leave a review!**


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